


Stubbornness and Sandwiches

by sparxwrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eating, Fallen Angels, Food, Human Lucifer, Humor, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a while for them to convince Lucifer he needs to eat. Apparently, archangels - even Fallen ones - are above such mundanely human pursuits as consuming food. In the end, though, it's Dean that manages to get some down his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stubbornness and Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, Lucifer is not anorexic in this, and nor does he have an eating disorder. He is reluctant to eat because a) he's still in denial about having Fallen, b) he doesn't want to give Dean the satisfaction, and c) he's a prissy little shit who thinks that eating is a disgustingly human thing he shouldn't have to lower himself to.
> 
> However, some of the description in this fic may be triggering to people (although only very mildly, I should think), so do be aware.

It takes a while for them to convince Lucifer he needs to eat. Of course, he _knows_  he needs to eat - no Grace means he’s got to start doing all those messy, human things he despises - but there’s a big difference between an academic appreciation of the body’s requirement for nourishment and discovering how having an empty stomach makes it feel like your abdomen has teeth and is attempting to eat itself.

In the end, Dean’s the one who first manages to get food down Lucifer’s throat, mainly because he’s the only one around at the time - Sam upstairs, sleeping his way through the bout of flu he’s come down with as best he can. It’s probably for the best, after all, considering that being ill makes Sam even more terminally bitchy than he usually is, and if he’d spent any length of time downstairs Dean would have been tempted to do something both drastic and regrettable.

Of course, Sam’s absence also means that he’s left alone downstairs with Lucifer (who has been exiled to the lounge on the basis that Sam needs rest, and also that Dean’s not exactly sure he can cope with an ex-archangel with flu right now, not on top of everything else.

Lucifer and Dean together in small spaces has, over the five days that Lucifer’s been human and in their care, historically not gone well.

Eventually, Dean gets sick of avoiding him, hiding in his room or the basement or the kitchen - feeling like a stranger in his own house (never mind that it’s exactly  _his_ , per se) is not something he enjoys - and goes out shopping. They’re running low of food, anyways, and Sam’s always liked soup when he was ill. Now Dean finally has his own kitchen, he can make Sam some of the good stuff, rather than resorting to shitty insta-soup packets.

When he gets back from shopping, though, Lucifer’s still exactly where he let him; curled up in the squishy armchair Dean usually reserves for himself, fingers laced over his stomach. The slight trembling is new, though, a thin shudder to his shoulders and a pinched look to his face that can’t possibly mean anything good.

Dean’s not exactly down for this whole ‘sympathy for the Devil’ thing Sam’s got going on, but even so, Lucifer makes a pretty pathetic sight. The dark, peeling wounds around his eyes and down his neck are healing now he’s human, but slowly, slower still because he refuses to eat and will only drink anything (provided it’s water) under extreme duress. He’s pale-faced, almost grey under the marks and scruff.

For a long moment, Dean just stares at him - stares at the bowed and broken shape of what was once the archangel who invented pride. Not that he cares much for Lucifer, but to see anyone like this makes him uncomfortable, makes his skin crawl. He’s had too much experience of his own with exactly how hellish not having enough food can be.

“Hey, Luci!” he snaps, dumping the food in the kitchen and walking over to stand in front of the miserable creature curled up in his chair. “C’mon. I’m gonna get you some food.”

“I’m not-” starts Lucifer, raising his head and forcing drooping eyes - sleep’s another thing he fights constantly, although he’s a little less successful at fighting it than eating - open to scowl at Dean, but he’s cut off.  
“I swear to fucking god, if you try to tell me you’re not hungry, I will punch you in the face.” Dean’s not the one who was asked to look after Lucifer by the mysterious voice in the sky, after all, so he doesn’t really feel the need to be overly polite or gentle with the angel who once tried to destroy the world. “You look like you’re an inch away from collapsing ‘cause of malnutrition, and Sam’ll be pissed if I let you die. So. Food.”

The mention of Sam (who, for the past three days, has been too ill to force the issue with Lucifer personally) seems to be enough to rouse Lucifer to motion. “I… will try some,” he mutters eventually, reluctance and distaste written all over his face at needing something so disgustingly  _human_ , before pressing a flat palm against his stomach.

“Good,” grumbles dean, irritably victorious, before heading off to the kitchen in the hope of leaving the Fallen angel behind.

He’s both annoyed and unsurprised when a voice behind him asks, “What are you making?” a few minutes later, when he’s half way through dumping a handful of carrot chunks into a saucepan.  
“Carrot soup,” he manages, at least half-civil, picking up the knife and starting on the next carrot, chopping just a little more aggressively than strictly necessary. “Don’t reckon Sammy’s gonna be able to keep much else down at the moment, to be honest.” His mouth twists in concern, and he dumps another handful of carrots into the saucepan to distract himself.

There’s a small, unhappy noise from behind Dean - which he ignores, because the moment he admits to himself Lucifer can feel something,  _anything_ ,is the moment he’ll have to start treating Lucifer like he has emotions, and he doesn’t want to do that - and then Lucifer’s at his elbow, peering curiously over his shoulder at the chopping.

“Is this edible?” he asks a second later, holding up a small chunk of carrot that’s  escaped Dean’s scooping, and Dean  _growls_.  
“Yes, of course it’s fucking edible, it’s a goddamn carrot!” he snaps, and then winces a little as Lucifer’s eyes flash cold and angry and hurt.  
“There’s no need to be rude,” murmurs Lucifer, backing away a little and popping the carrot piece into his mouth.

There’s silence for a while; not exactly companionable or comfortable but at least mildly peaceable. Dean finishes cutting the carrots, adds a stock cube, some spices, some water, and leaves it to simmer. “You do know you’re supposed to chew that, right? And swallow it,” he adds, when he’s done, shoving the knife and chopping board into the sink for washing up later.

He doesn’t get an answer, just stubborn silence, but a few moments later he hears a muted crunch as Lucifer’s teeth break through the carrot, and he smiles a sharply victorious smile.

“It’s… not unpleasant,” admits Lucifer after a long moment, in the same tone as someone announcing the mud they’ve just stepped in is dog shit. His nose wrinkles irritably at the fact that, against his desires, he actually  _likes_  food, likes the clean coolness of it, likes the smoothness fractured into jagged bits by his teeth. “I- do you have any more?” It takes swallowing every inch of pride to get the words out, but he has to do it, has to have more.

“No,” says Dean shortly, because it’s true, and then winces at the soft, involuntary noise of pain that escapes Lucifer as he says it. He knows from experience that eating something, anything, when you’re hungry only makes the pain more acute. “I… the soup’s gonna be about an hour,” he says, and then reluctantly adds, “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Lucifer nods, but can’t quite bring himself to say thank you.

It’s not like Dean was expecting it of him, anyway, so he’s not terribly offended. He scavenges bread and a pack of crisps from the cupboard, cheese and ham and butter from the fridge, an apple from the fruit bowl. If he could, he’d give Lucifer something heavier, to try and fill out the hollows in his cheeks - not because of any particular fondness for him, just because the gauntness combined with the healing wounds makes him look creepy as fuck - but anything too rich will have Lucifer vomiting over the toilet soon enough, and that’s really not something he wants to deal with right now.

“…This is all edible?” asks Lucifer, thoughtfully, when Dean sets the plate in front of him; cheese and ham sandwich, neat pile of crisps, and apple slices, because Dean really can’t be bothered to teach the Devil how to eat an apple at the moment.

“Yep,” says Dean, brutally cheerful, and watching Lucifer in anticipation of the amusement the angel’s first foray into the world of eating is sure to bring. “Now shut up and eat your goddamn sandwich.”

Lucifer’s brows dip in a scowl, and Dean can almost  _see_  the pointed, sarcastic remark building - and then he blinks when it dies in Lucifer’s throat. Instead, the ex-angel picks up a piece of apple, comforting in its solidity and simplicity, and bites the corner of it. There’s a hesitancy to his movements, and the way he was eyeing the apple like he’s doubtful of its suitability for being used as food is a little insulting, but at least he’s eating.

The expressions on his face (shocked, delight,ed confused, overwhelmed, a touch of fear at the edges of it all) when he chews the morsel he’s bitten off is priceless, and has Dean doubled over with laughter that he’s only half-heartedly trying to keep in.

It’s a mark of either how good the food tastes, or of how hungry Lucifer is, that Dean’s laughter goes un-commented on. The rest of the apple slice disappears, quickly, as do a few of the crisps and a chunk of the sandwich - Lucifer, apparently, wants to taste-test everything. Thankfully, after the first few frenzied mouthfuls, he slows down, eating in smaller chunks and chewing more thoroughly.

After another minute or so, watching Lucifer eat loses most of its comedic value and turns into watching pretty much any other person on the face of the planet eat. Bored, Dean turns back to minding his soup.

Maybe fifteen minutes later - Lucifer slows towards the end, stomach protesting even this relatively small amount of food after not eating for so long, both as an angel and a human - there’s a nudge as Dean’s elbow. Turning, he sees Lucifer there, plate clutched in both hands (looking like he’s practically licked the thing clean, and that’s a mental image that’s both hilarious and disturbing) and an expression like something has crawled into his mouth and died.

For a moment, they just stand there, staring at each other. And then, reluctantly, Lucifer grits out, “Thank you.”

Dean manages to hold back his laughter and the grin threatening to break across his face. “Finally learning some manners, huh?” he asks, dumping the plate into the sink before turning back to Lucifer. Unsurprisingly, the ex-angel is scowling. Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, lighten up, for fuck’s sake - and next time you’re hungry, come to me and goddamn  _ask_  for something.” Noticing the slight rise of Lucifer’s eyebrows, he adds, “Not because I give two fucks, but because Sammy’ll be pissed if I let you die.”

There’s a pause, and then Lucifer nods, something approaching the realms of respect in his eyes - because Dean may not like him, and he may be coolly ambivalent towards Dean, but Sam is something they can both agree on.

And then Dean decides the moment’s dragged on long enough, and makes a shooing motion at Lucifer, scowling a little. “Now stop cluttering up the goddamn kitchen and go find somewhere to perch, or sulk, or whatever.” He pauses. “Actually, even better, go wake up Sam and tell him to get his flu-y ass down here because the soup’s almost ready.”

“Of course.” There’s something like amusement in Lucifer’s tone as he dips his head in something too small and sarcastic to be a nod, but Dean can still see the happiness smoothing over his face at being given permission to go get Sam.

He’s gone before Dean can roll his eyes or make some stupid comment about young love, leaving Dean on his own with the carrot soup and the washing up - and, thankfully, a blessedly empty kitchen.


End file.
